"That very day I received a letter from her, full of well-turned periods and insidious accusations. I read it without emotion. I was like a well that has been choked forever--nothing can make its water bubble up again. I answered this letter with a single word--'Swear!' No second letter came; a last remnant of human feeling, sunk deep in superstition, made it impossible for her to utter a lie that might be revenged upon her child. "I waited three days. Then I wrote her a note that contained no word of reproach, but simply said that it would be impossible for me to share my life with her longer. I told her I would provide for her as I had done heretofore, under the single condition that she would take her maiden name again and never make any claim upon the child. When I wrote this--I can't help confessing my foolishness to you--something within me said, 'She will never consent to this condition. She will come and fall at your feet, with a full confession of her guilt, and pray you rather to kill her than to separate her from her child.' Then--what might I not have done then?--it makes me shudder to think of it. I almost believe I should have pardoned her--and been wretched ever after, with my honor wounded and my confidence shaken at the very roots. But I had loved her too dearly for me to become master of my weakness so quickly. "She spared me the temptation. In a few days her answer came; she refrained from making any explanations, which she knew would never be satisfactory to a person so inclined to be suspicious as I was. Great God! I suspicious--I, whom a lie would have quieted again! She accepted what I had proposed to her, intended to return to the stage--for which she was undoubtedly born--thanked me for all the goodness I had shown her, hoped all would go well with me, and much more--a letter well written, friendly, and icy cold. "Not a syllable was said about the child!" CHAPTER II. He had thrown himself down on a lounge that stood near the door, and his head sank on his breast. For a long time he remained in this position apparently forgetting where he was, and to whom he had been telling his dreary, melancholy story. The dog rose up, and, with a singularly wistful expression in his eyes, went to the side of his master, who now roused himself with an effort, and made as though he would take his departure. But Julie did not change her position, nor look at him, but merely said in her soft voice: "What must you have suffered!" Then, after a moment's pause, she went on: "And you have never seen her since?"